Urbanist Journals

DIEN BIEN PHU

2006-11-15T22:41:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Dien Bien Phu. Where the French got their creamy little asses handed to them in 1954. I'm sorry to take joy in that, but there is always a little bit of joy in revelling in one of France's many, many military failures. Here's what Wikipedia has to say:

"As a result of a series of blunders in the French decision making process, the French undertook to create an air-supplied base, at Dien Bien Phu, deep in the hills of Vietnam. Its purpose was to cut off Viet Minh supply lines into the neighboring French colony of Laos. Instead, the Viet Minh, under General Vo Nguyen Giap, were able to surround and besiege the French, who were ignorant of the Viet Minh's possession of heavy artillery and their ability to move such weapons to the mountain crests overlooking the French encampment. The Viet Minh occupied the highlands around Dien Bien Phu, and were able to fire down accurately onto French positions. Tenacious fighting on the ground ensued, reminiscent of the trench warfare of World War I. The French repeatedly repulsed Viet Minh assaults on their positions, occasionally air-dropping reinforcements. Ultimately, however, the Viet Minh overran the base and forced the French to surrender."

Anyway, I found it boring. There was absolutely nothing in the town, and I don't get off on military sites, old tanks and bunkers n' shit. Unlike my dad, who experienced a series of multiple "wargasms." We went as part of a school excursion with Jonah's University. The hotel was an oversized, underused, weirdo resort in the middle of nowhere with swan boats for paddling through the thoroughly toxic lake, billiard tables and ping-pong tables, and monkeys in cages which were apparently being prepared to be killed and cooked and eaten. We ate conventional vietnamese food which was all awful anyway.

Welcome to the fucking boonies of Viet Nam.

Our last night there all the college kids played Bierut with warn Ha Noi beer and I went to bed early. It turns out that Jonah's professor won the Beirut tournament.

This is what our young university minds go on semester abroad for it seems.

More interesting stuff to come.

It's my last day in Viet Nam, and all I want. . .

2006-11-15T21:39:00.000-08:00

Is some fucking western food. A cheeseburger, a falafel or maybe. . . .

A Doner Kebab.

My first night in Ha Noi (will give full Ha Noi) update soon I stayed in a heavily touristy area and across the street was a Doner Kebab stand. Full lumps-of-turkey-on-a-spit, with frsh veggies and soft, fluffy bread. I knew at one point I wanted to try a Vietnamese take on Western or just some sort of international food.

But, with all the touring, and the ubiquitous Banh Mi's (sausage, pate and cucmber sandwiches) and Pho Bo (Beef Noodle Soup) and Cha Ca (Fish and scallions fried up in a pan right at your plate) and Spring Rolls, etc. etc. factoring in an opportunity to go back to that one Doner Kebab stand which I very vaguely remember where it was didn't make much sense.

Until today. It's my last day here and I vowed to myself that I would find that Doner Kebab stand. We spent the morning at Ha Noi's fine arts museum which was really nice. I dropped $70 on some artwork to put up in my new apt and don't regret a cent of it. By the end I had the choice of either continuing museum hopping or getting my Kebab. I didn't deliberate for long. I didn't know where I was going, all I knew was the name of the hotel from that night. I told the cyclo-driver: "Golden-Sun Hotel."

He responds: "Hal-hi-son Hotel?" Sure, sounded right. This is the country where if you pronouce one vowel slightly wrong, they have no fucking clue what you're talking about. He drops me at the Harrison Hotel where all the APEC deligates are statying.

Do I look like a fucking APEC deligate? My only choice is to go all the way out to my younger brother's University and meet up with him to look at a map. We haul ass out there and he's not in his room. I wander the streets, hungry, frowning on all the greasy Viet-food stands until I cross paths with a good friend of his from the dorms. We go to his dorm room and start scouring tour books and maps for this phantom Kebab stand. And then I see it:

A review for a bar called the Funky Monkey which was around the corner from the Golden Sun, which was on the same block. . .

My stomach gurgling, I write down the address and hail a cycl0 driver. We turn the corner and there he is: a little Vietnamese dude selling Turkish sandwhiches in Ha Noi.

I buy one with a beer. The bread's warm and fluffy, the veggies are crisp and fresh, the meat. . . a little fatty, but very tasty. I wolf it down and buy another. They're 10,000 VND each. that's 70 cents.

I spend the rest of the afternoon wandering through the district with a stuffed euphpric grin on my stupid American face. That was the most well-deserved, well-enjoyed Doner Kebab I've ever had.

HUE!

2006-11-09T22:09:00.000-08:00

It's day. . . um. . . six I think? . . of the Levy familiy's incursion into the wild and fascination nation of Viet Nam!

After we finsihed getting our suits fitted and our shopping blitz concluded we got ourselves into a blissfully air conditioned van to drive us north the the city of Hue, home of the Imperial Palace. The drive was harrowing. At least thats what my dad told me, I slept the whole way. People use their horns here compulsively. It's just a way of announcing your presence. So, as the rain bucketted down on the highway, with ponchoed motorbicyclists on either side, it's amazing that there wasn't a crash of some sort.

The best way to describe the hotel in Hue was "faded glory". Like it was an elegant and fancy hotel one time and descended into seediness. There was a stuffed deer in the lobby and it seemed like we were the only ones there. We went out to a restaurant that had been featured in a number of guidebooks. There were a slew of other tourists there. The restaurant and the one right next door were owned by two deaf brothers and they had their gimmick down: They had their own homemade bottle openers: a plank of woodf with a bolt and nut separated far enough to lodge a bottlecap under. They had a whole wall of photos of tourists using the bottle-opener in their home country (under the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, etc.) We're going to get ours under the Statue of liberty.

Also, on the way to Hue we stopped at Marble Mountain, which was one of the most breathtaking sights of the trip. Five mountains that jut into the sky on an otherwise completely flat coastal plane. Really odd, almost mystical. There was a phenomenal cave inside the main mountain with sculptures of Buddha and the female Buddha (whose name escapes me.) Once again, there are photos to go with.

The Imperioal City was beautiful, kind of like the the Vietnamese Versailles, and HUGE. But by this point it was really hot and we were tired. Now, we're about to catch a flight up to Hanoi where we meet up with the fifth member of our crew, completing the Levy crew: JONAH!!

For those who were unaware, my younger brother Jonah has been studying in Vietnam for three months now, and that was what inspired this trip in the first place. We're very excited to see him.

See you all in a week!

-Gid

HOI AN!!

2006-11-08T18:01:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm glad to be out of Saigon. It was fun, but any city that makes New York seem quiet and peaceful with easy to navigate traffic and fresh, clean, healthy air is not exactly a place I'd like to stay for vacation. One update I would like to include is about the War Remnants Museum, which was a heartbreaking look at the results of our incursion into this small, peaceful country.

There was an entire exhibit dedicated to all the photographers who died in the line of journalism, and those who were forced into trying to save soldiers lives when all they intended was to chronicle the war. Really intense, heartbreaking stuff, some of the best action photography I'd ever seen. (Alan, you'd love it.) There was a Vietnamese High School group waiting to go in who all stared at me in my 6'5" glory and cheered wildly when I smiled and waved at them. Hehehe

The Levy family also went out to some of the best eating we'd had so far. At each meal we'd just keep ordering more and more food until we were stuffed, and it'd always come out to less that $15 a person.

After three days in Saigon, we caught an early morning flight to Da Nang and then a cab ride to the city of Hoi An, which was much more what I was looking for in a vacation from NYC. Smaller, coastal town, where it's POURING on and off the whole time we're here.

The main reason we came to Hoi An is for the clothing. They have some of the best tailors in Viet Nam here, and I got not one, not two, but THREE hand-tailored three-piece suits and silk shirts for only about $70 apiece. For those of you who really know me, you know the next time we take a night on the town I'm going to be strutting about in all my pinstriped glory. Wé're getting them fitted later today, I can't wait. We also got handmade silk lanterns for $4 apiece. . . .

Some of you lucky ones may have one coming your way. . .

That night we went out to a really snazzy restaurant called the Mango Room which was a Vietnamese/Cuban/Argentine fusion restaurant with brightly colored walls, mellow Cuban music, and the comfiest chairs I'd ever sat in in a restuarant. 75% of the dishes had mango in them, plus a pureed mango daquiri that was just divine.

Right next door was the (as far as I could tell) only late-night cater-to-tourists pub in town where all the international tourists and exchange students went. There were maybe 50 or 75 people there at peak when the rest of the town was closed up for the night. On the walls were paitings of "SuperBono"(Bono with a superman suit and U2 on his chest instead of the Superman S), a Samurai soldier listening to an Ipod and a Warhol-esqe 3x4 collection of square portraits of influential writers, philosophers and world leaders including Ghandi, Stalin, Nietzche, Marx, and Marilyn Monroe. Go figure.

The nations represented at the bar were Australian, Ireland, Norway, Sweden, England, one French, Matt and I holding down the US and maybe some others.

Today, we're going to take a hike of Marble Mountain and then off to the city of Hue! (pronounced Hway)

Missing you kids, and remember! If you want a postcard, send me your address!

-Gideon

SAIGON!

2006-11-06T10:04:00.000-08:00

It's amazing that we live in a time that you can go to the other side of the world in only 24 hours.

There's also the experience of being timeless. Being in one place means that you're subject to the 24 hour clock, sunrise is at 6(ish) so is sunset, and that's the way the day works. Then when you're on a plane around the world, the whole system is thrown out of whack.

Anyway, myself, my father Mark, his lady-love Alisa and my brother Matt arrive in Saigon at 10am Saigon time, 10pm New York time. I feel well-rested but jittery from the flight. We catch a cab to our respective hotels (Dad & Alisa at a fancy one, Matt and I at a moderately priced one) and are shocked by the swarms of mopeds that dominate the streets. Nobody obeys traffic laws and it astounds me that there aren't constantly wrecks everywhere. Half the riders wear masks on their faces, nobody wears helmets, and sometimes you see two, three, even four to a moped (ie: a mother and three young children.) The cars share this space and politely nudge their way in and out of traffic.

We check in to the hotel, change our money ($1 = 15,000 Dong. Most food/drinks cost less than $2) and go out to explore the town. Like most cities in developing nations, everyone wants to sell you something, but I notice that they're more polite here than in Mexico for example.

If you think jaywalking across the street in New York is an adventure, you a'int seen nothing.

We went out for our first meal at a touristy restaurant, which was okay, and then visited Reunification Palace, which is a modern architecture recreation of the palace the French built when they set up shop in 1858. It was then where, after we got the hell out in 1976, where the North and South Vietnamese Reunified as the Socialist Replublic of Viet Nam. Dad had what he refers to as a "Historgasm" It also reinforced the whole question of what the fuck were we doing there in the first place? (We meaning the US Army)

It's also fascinating to see how they hold no grudge. From the early days of the war, the Vietnamiese people were informed that it was the US Government to blame for the war, not the US people. Everything has been forgotten, and now Vietnam wants everything to do with the US market. this is considering that we killed 3 million Vietnamese. 10% of the nation, 90% of which were civilians. It's totally heartbreaking to think of the enormous fucking mistake of that war and how touching it is that the Vietnamese can move past it with such stoicism.

Compare that to the current conflict and the mindset of the radical Muslim culture and the horrendous fucking mistake we're making now.

Anyway, I was in bed and asleep by 6pm, woke up at 6am and went on our trip down to the Meekong Delta. What a beatiful and wild river! I couldn't get the images from Apocalypse Now out of my head. We saw some island villages, sat and ate local fruit (papaya, pineapple, persimmons and some really wild looking/tasting dragonfruit) while the locals played music and sang to us, then I went on a shopping spree at the local market (yes there will be gifts for you lucky ones!)

The most interesting item was a large bottle of snake wine. Pretty self-explanitory, a bottle of wine with a cobra and a scorpion inside. It allegedly helps with "Rheumatism, arthritis, mental senility, physical fortitude, premature ejaculation, improper erechtness (thats how it was spelled)" and another number of ailments. The man who sold it kept gripping my biceps, telling me it would make me strong. For those tough enough, there with be a ceremonial tasting of snake-wine when I return.

The rest of the Meekong trip was lovely, exploring the friendly local villagers, watching the coconut farmers, the brickmakers, etc. There will be pictures coming out soon enough.

After we returned and took a nap, we went out to a fancy restaurant ate tons of delicious seafood and the total came out to about $8 each. I swear, if it wasn't for the $1000 plane-ride to get here, I'd take a trip like this once a week.

After that I strolled through the streets, glancing at the expected tight-jeaned prostitutes with fatigue and only the very mildest of interest. (No, that's NOT on my to-do list for this trip, thank you!!) and ended up at a very classy Jazz club called Sax n' Art. There was a quintet of very skilled jazz musicians, I bought a CD and sipped some cognac, trying to feel very classy in my sandals and adidas exercise shorts.

Well, I'm off to bed, and then tomorrow is a guided tour of the city.

More to come soon!!

Gid

A Sunday across Bridges, Boroughs and Class Borders

2006-10-18T08:57:00.000-07:00

Sunday is God's day. If you're a Christian of course. Im Jewish, which means it should be Friday night thru Saturday, and if you're a Jehovah's Witness, there are no holidays because every day is God's day, but that's not the point. Sunday is supposed to be a day off. And if you work freelance, like I do, actually having Sunday off is a special blessing, so I decided I was going to make this one count.

I was going to bike across a bridge I'd never biked before, and go to a museum I'd never been to. I met up with my friend Marin, who has become my defacto sunday biking buddy, as well as my closest friend in contrast to our height differences (6' 5" to 5' 2"! Whoa.) and after tea at her house in Greenpoint, we decided it was time to saunter across the North Pole of Brooklyn to the strange, alien land of Queens via the Pulaski Bridge. That was easy pickins. Then came the Queensboro.

The Queensboro bridge is a long freakin' bridge, and if you want to bike across, you have to enter from QB Plaza NORTH at about 27th ave. Plus side is, it's much less steep than the Williamsburg.

Anyway, once on the Manhattan side, it was a harrowing trek through traffic to get ourselves to 38th and Madison where in classy, high-brow New York fashion, locked our bikes up to a sign-post and finagled a free admission (I love having an NYC Sightseeing License) into the

J.P. MORGAN LIBRARY.

For those unaware, J.P. Morgan was the richest man in the world for much of the late 19th century, through the early 20th. Inflation adjusted, richer than Bill Gates. Hyberbole adjusted, richer than GOD. In 1873 he saved the United States from bankruptcy with one really, really big loan. He was also a fatty with a big, honkin' swollen red nose. Kind of like an evil capitalist Santa Claus with a big moustache and no beard.

He also travelled all over the world collecting rare and beautiful books and artifacts which he kept in his private library, which are now on display. Morgan believed in things like reincarnation and that the spirits of mighty Kings and Pharaohs inhabited modern-day men like himself, which I could understand. Looking at all the proles and plebians swarming every inch of the city, It made sense that he thought himself a God amongst men.

The library was beautiful, as well as his study, preserved in it's lush red-velvet and Baroque painted ceilings, but there's only so long you can stare at really old books and paintings before you get the point. The main lobby had been completely modernized with wood panelling and glass elevators and in the upstairs room was an exibit on Bob Dylan on loan from Seatlle's Experience Music Project. I don't exactly see Bob Dylan and J.P. Morgan sitting down for tea and a jam session, but the exhibit was nice.

Okay, we've satisfied our intellectual pursuits for the day. Where's the beer?

We biked ourselves down 2nd ave, and after a delicious and very healthy brunch at Kate's Joint (ave B and E 4th) Marin informed me of her woe at not making it to the very last show at CBGBs which was that very night.

Ugh. Enough with the CBGBs already. It was a landmark in music history that had it's time, made its mark, left its legacy and remained true to it's cause and substance, and now its OVER ALREADY!! The Bowery has transformed from Satan's Circus into the heart of BoHo chic and the fall of CBGBs in the face of all of those god-awful high-rise condos was an inevitability. There are other urban conservationists that claim that we should have landmarked it and turned it into a museum. This would have been a much greater travesty than seeing it shut down.

It's a punk-rock club, not the Morgan Library. The Morgan Library is where you go to look at old relics of history. CBGBs is where you go to drink and headbang yourself into blissfull oblivion, which is exactly where CBs is now.

So, after flagilating myself with my bike lock sarcastically, I went inside, had a beer and had one last photo taken of myself and Marin at the bar, giving the one fingered Punk-Rock salute.

J.P. Morgan is dead. Long live J.P. Morgan.
Punk-Rock is dead. Long live. . .ah, F%*# it.

The Umbilical Yo-Yo Act (Asheville, NC - Brooklyn, NY)

2006-09-22T16:25:00.000-07:00

I'm in my bedroom getting dressed up. Favorite purple velvet jacket, a silk shirt and slacks, I'm not going out dancing, or drinking, or this month's party to end all blah blah blah, I'm taking myself out to dinner. At the new French-Farm bistro restaurant on Cortelyou where married couples with three kids go to feel romantic and elegant in Ditmas Park. And then I'm coming home.

I just came back from a three-day vacation in Asheville, North Carolina. The liberal haven of the South a slice of San Fran in the heart a' dixieland. I vaguely knew a couple people and found a host on Couchsurfing.com (a road-tripper's dream come true) and took an awful 19 hour bus ride + 5 hour mini-van ride with family to get there.

And it's quiet. It's peaceful. And then I get a phone call from one of my employers informing me that I forgot some important paperwork in my last shipment to them.

FUCK! And I thought I was on vacation. So I call home all frantic to get my dad and brother to track down the stuff which was right on my desk and send it for me and while we were chatting, he asked me to cover a tour for him on Saturday. Which means coming home Friday, which means cutting my 5 vacation down to 3 1/2.

I earned this vacation. I worked (and yes, partied) like a dog this summer, then moved out of a crappy apartment just to spend a nice few days in somewhere that was whole-heartedly NOT New York just to get yanked back by the. . . (Wait for it. . .)

UMBILICAL YO-YO!!

The firmest bedrock of my life is my endless gratitude for being raised in such a blessed family and household in such a rich, brilliant city.

But GOOD, GOD!!!! WHAAT THE FUCK DOES IT TAKE TO GET AWAY FROM YOU PEOPLE ONCE IN WHILE!!!!

There was Contra-Dancing! And pretty girls in country dresses who just wanted to DANCE! And crickets, and the most amazing dumpster-diving a budget scavenger could ever ask for, and I swear that the weekend had so much more to offer, but I had to cover. For my dad, because he didn't want to work on Rosh Hoshana.

Now I could make a big deal out of the "fair-weather Jew" phenomenom (his favorite food is shrimp) but that's not the point, the point is, when he needed me to cover for him, I did, regarsless of being 700 miles away because it's family. And in my case, you can only get away, until you feel the cord tugging.

There's another reason. I'm writing this from the big bedroom I graduated into when my older brother went to college. The bedroom I spent the latter part of my adolsence in, living back home. Rent free. Dad's house once again.

That apartment I mentioned before was number 2 of bad apartment choices I'd made in New York, each resulting in Dad taking me back in (always rent-free!) because, well, it's family. We're all in this together.

So tonight's the fancy dinner celebrating my successful vacation, which in total cost less than the money I'm going to make giving directions to a bus driver and chatting up adults from Where'zat?istan to various places throughout Queens for 6 hours.

It's a good life. Even if you have to escape it sometimes.

Coming next: An (abridged) review of Asheville, NC

Day of the Dust Cloud (republish)

2006-09-10T16:07:00.000-07:00

This was the post I wrote a year ago. I'm sorry, I'm very blocked and can't seem to get anything down.

It's nice to reflect sometimes

It started like any other Sunday. Later than most of my other days, for which I was always grateful but still a day I had to work, the last day of my five day week: a sunny, yet breezy morning, probably pants today, not shorts. Then over breakfast, my housemate Sean, also a tour guide for Grey Line says to me:

"The first tower was hit four minutes ago." My first response was a flashback. Of someone in my campus dorm, up in Amherst, Massachusets saying something about a plane and a tower as I was brushing my teeth, still shaking the night's crust from my eyes. I then snapped back to today, my second reaction being just an instant of "Oh no, not again." By the third instant I had caught his meaning, and remembered. Today's The Day.

And to be honest, I have no personalized reason to comemorate The Day. I didn't know anybody in the towers, and knew nobody who lost someone. My greiving was the public greiving of acknowledging that my home and my city had been attacked, and in the collective sense, we were all sharing one large wound. I mourn my being removed from the scene. 200 miles away, going through the motions of class schedule and college routine for the next three days until I threw a handful of clothes into a pack and hitch-hiked my way down the I-495 until I was back in Brooklyn and could see The Dust Cloud personally, from across the Fulton Landing.

My life wasn't changed substantially, but the next three years being removed from my city made me feel like I couldn't experience how the city was dealing, adjusting, and preparing to move on. I remember on holidays home from school, walking around the financial district wondering if it was just a psychological block, or if I was just so removed from the experience that I couldn't find the border of the site. In saw the wreckage only once in it's still smashed, war-zone state before I started bringing student and senior groups to the spot so they could snap photos and I could give my memorized speech of facts, events, and praise of our Heroes.

I'm fifteen months out of college now, my first 9/11 feeling finally re-integrated into the rhytms of my city. Watching the rapidly gentrifying over-the-river spots of my beloved Brooklyn. I'm participating in the arts scene in Williamsburg, Greenpoint and the still-rebellous Lower East Side, which is desperately trying to scream away the encroaching Starbucks' and six-figure bankers. I'm laughing bitterly at the meager efforts of the democratic primary, wondering which clown is going to win the 4-runner rat race, just to crumble under Mayor Mike's billions in campaigning and pro-active approach to development and city improvement. Even if it is typical corporate-centric profiteering behind most of the public-works projects Mayor Mike is advocating, I have to say: one of the first things I look for in a mayor is compitence. And he exudes it a lot more than any of the Democrats.

New York City's evolution of the past 20 years has been astonishing, and the past four in particular have showed how powerfully the city has been reborn and continues to grow and evolve for the better. Except in that one sixteen acre depression between Church and West, Liberty and Vesey. A place that has remained for four years as a pit, both literally and ideologically. The tour bus drives past it one block removed on Broadway. Which is a lot less removed than I feel some time. I am a New Yorker, yet I personally have no say what will be there. And I, just like those who are actually making the choices that will change the city permanently, seem to have no idea what should be there either.

Independence Day, pt. 2

2006-07-13T14:32:00.000-07:00

The Big Question: Are you proud to be an American?

For most everyone, they asked for a little time to think the question through. Language itself was a very important factor in the question. Particularly, the meaning of "Proud", and the meaning of America.

Let's explore the latter of these two. Because nearly everyone was in agreement that the leadership of a nation is very different entity than that of the nation itself. And it'ss safe to say that at least every single person in Hipster Brooklyn is on some level disgusted, outraged, and ashamed of the current leadership of the United States, and that of it's presence in the world. But in a 230 year history (longer if you include the Colonial Era.) It's just a phase.

Viewing the nation through the larger lens of history, many were very proud to be Americans. And it was up to us as Americans to bring us out of these corrupt, war-mongering bent that we have been turned on since the vicious wound inflict on our country nearly five years ago.

Possibly one moment when New Yorkers were re-affirmed as Americans more tightly than ever, without any warning or consent.

But tied in with this responsibility is the substance of Pride.

Though many had trouble accepting the term unconditionally, most could accept a sense of gratitude for being born where we were. It's true: Life is better here than in much the rest of the world.

This was the condition that I accepted The Big Question under. Every single day of my life I'm grateful to be in one of the most ambitious, opportunity-filled and inspiration rich cities, and yes, nations in the world. Whenever I have the option to either go to work and make some hard-earned cash, or not go to work and enjoy one of a thousand fun, interesting, or soothing alternatives all offered within a bike-ride's distance: it feels good to be an American who makes the most he can of it.

We just have work to do. A lot of work. Because it's ours. It belongs to us.

Don't say "not my President." Because he is. And it's up to us to watch, learn, listen and act on what we own. What we've inherited by birthright. What we are responsible to change.

How? . . . Um, well we. . . uh, well. . . we're still working on that.

So let's make like Americans and get back to work.

Happy 4th.

The Urbanist.

Independence Day. In many, many forms. (Ridgewood, Queens)

2006-07-04T16:02:00.000-07:00

It is July 4th, 2006. Easily the most patriotic day in the United States. And here I am: An American Jew, (grandson of two Holocaust survivors no less) sitting in a 100+ year old German Beer Hall in Ridgewood, Queens cheering "JA, DEUTSCHLAND!" during the Germany vs Italy match in the World Cup.

Why? Cause I'm independent. I'm free.

I think of the irony of the fact that it's July 4th and I'm watching a sport that America couldn't care less about. The two teams duking it out: Italy and Germany were two of the three we fought against in the greatest war this planet has yet seen. And I'm watching it in the most ethnically diverse county in the world.

I think of the irony that I have a Brooklyn tattoo on my chest, which my Bubby and Zeidi would have abhored to no end, and I'm rooting for Germany in a Queens beer hall.

Independence Day has an enormous resonance in New York. Though die-hard Red State Republicans would rant and rave of the unpatriotic nature of all those Pinko Queers back east, the Revolution happened here. It didn't happen in the Midwest. Five days after it was signed, the Declaration of Independence was read in New York's City Commons, now City Hall Park. New York was the first Capitol of the U.S. And it was right here, that Hamilton and Jefferson (the original partisans) worked out the compromise that all the newly freed colonies would support the U.S. War Debt together, as one United States of America. This was a clear blow to Jefferson's confederated ideal, so Hamilton had to make a dire sacrifice as well: conceding the Capitol of the new nation move from the rapidly expanding New York, the heart of the nation's commerce and industry. . . to a sleepy little farming town in Maryland. Now: Washington D.C.

Hamilton never became President. John Adams made sure of that with a little "must be born in the U.S." provision written into the constitution. Hamilton was born in the Carribean. The small island of St. Croix. Of course one of the pivotal figures in the history of New York, and in the framing of the nation would be an immigrant.

I still wonder about the deeper motives and back-room handshakes that resulted in the murder of te former Treasurer. shot dead in a "gentlemen's duel" out in New Jersey, with Vice President Burr himself no less. Hamilton, with his shrewd businessman's eye, forever looking foward into the future, was no favorite among the Founding Fathers. But he deserved better than a bullet to the chest for his beliefs.

He's not remembered and revered the way Washington, Jefferson and Franklin are. The ten dollar bill, of course, was no light concession, but if it weren't for the Federalist vision of Alexander Hamilton, we'd never be one whole nation with opinions and upbringings as far and as wide as the nations from which our multitudes stem.

Which was, of course, necessary at the time: We owed a ton of money to France for helping us beat the British! The only way they'd grant us the credit was if we accepted it as One Nation Under. . . well, the whole Church and State thing is another topic all together.

But with the Red vs Blue mindset that has our whole big, ugly governement, with it's thousand screaming heads collectively crammed into one enormous anus that is our political system of special interests, endless election and campaigning cycles, partisan deadlock, and a democratic process officially broken by election tampering, et cetera, et cetera ad infintum, does The United States of America really even make sense anymore?

For a Wyoming cattle-rancher or a Iowa corn farmer, you bet it does! Who'd pay for their national defense?

During the Civil War, New York City considered secceding from the U.S. As the commercial and industrial powerhouse of the New World, New York could stand on it's own two feet quite more comfortably than any other municipality in the country. A modern day Constantinople, like Hong Kong, but magnified ten-fold.

Without delving into the leftist's endless disgust with the current administration, wouldn't it be. . . almost utopian if we could leave the liguistically retarded Texas cowboy, with *his* war and just declare a new, much more exact form of Independence here in the Five Boroughs?

I decided to take the Big Question to an Independence Day rooftop concert in Hipster Brooklyn and see if any intriguing answers bounce back. The Big Question is. . . .

Are you proud to be an American? . . . (continued)

The rise and fall of Wild Brooklyn: A critical analysis Pt. 1 of 2

2006-05-11T16:18:00.000-07:00

His false teeth gritted, oak grinding against oak (as the old wives tale goes) as Lieutenant General Washington of the Continental Army, unified under the banner of the newly christened United States of America attempted to whisk his army away in the middle of a sweltering August night, wading through the muck and the slough of the Gowanus Canal. Here in the southwest tip of Long Island, between the villages of Brooklyn and Flatbush.
Washington attempted to evacuate what was left of his ten thousand of troops from the wrath of the redcoats and their cutthroat Hessian mercenaries. Nearly three hundred killed, another thousand wounded or missing, and outnumbered nearly three to one, the tall, commanding General knew that if they fell to the musket and bayonet here, just across from the City of New York, then Jefferson’s brilliant Declaration of Independence would fall to the annals of failed, over-ambitious revolutionary text. A practical leader, Washington whisked his men away to the island of Manhattan under the cloak of night, a wise retreat that ensured that they would fight and win another day.
The Old Stone House (a recreation of it, actually) where Washington and his troops held off the onslaught of enemy troops still stands in Brooklyn, though it’s not in the wild, uncultivated mess that it was in 1776. It’s in Park Slope, one of the safest, most beautiful and rapidly prospering neighborhoods in New York, a veritable brownstone utopia. With the miraculous infusion of arts culture into DUMBO (complete with irresistibly cute, Real-Estate friendly title) and the emergence of Red Hook as a coveted historic waterfront space, Brooklyn’s reputation has become cleaner, safer and friendlier than it possibly ever has before.
And not everybody’s happy about that.
Development equals higher rent. It’s an irrefutable Catch-22 of urban living: Making a space better makes it more desirable, which makes it more expensive. And often those who feel they played an inseparable role in cultivating the area’s appeal (the artistic communities, the nightlife pioneers) feel left out of the progress when they see their rents quintuple.
Then again, how is that any different that any other land conflict in the world? Can any group really ever lay an intrinsic claim to a piece of land? Even the Native Americans crossed the Bearing Straight to get here ages ago. The Middle-East conflict is the clearest indication that the whole idea of “our land” does more harm than good, and if I were being booted from my home, I’d rather it be at the end of a checkbook than a rifle.
The claim to Brooklyn shifted from the Lenape to the Dutch, to the British, to The Colonials long before it then shattered into an international mélange of neighborhoods, Polish in Greenpoint, Hasidim in Boro Park, Italians in Bensonhurst, so on and so forth but Brooklynites one and all.
On April 15th, 230 years after Washington’s daring escape, The art/activism/thought collective, self-titled “Complacent Nation” echoed the good general’s struggle and announced through the power of email, their own Battle for Brooklyn, laying claim to a sacred land like so many leaders have in battles past. Of course, This wasn’t the first time that Complacent Nation stuck up a cause for the struggling artist, the non-capitalist, the striving idealist searching for nothing more than a space for expression without being muscled out by the forces of either the “law” or the market.
Complacent Nation is not a collective so much as a brainchild of a single organizer with a plethora other artists and performers who gravitate around it, involving themselves on a project-by-project basis. The “man behind the curtain to whom we are to pay no attention…” is Will Etundi. A 27 year-old web designer who works exclusively for non-profits. He moved to New York from Northern California eight years ago, living in Harlem for the first seven and then to DUMBO.
Will began Complacent a six years ago, as a comment on the disconnect between the social awareness and applied efforts of activist culture and the carelessness and complacency of the greater world around us. Understandable, seeing how this was the year we saw our president chosen by a single Supreme Court vote, while we sat watching, our thumbs mysteriously all planted deep within our rectal cavities. Reclaiming the streets was one of the roots of Will’s activism, seeing it as the most basic arena for populist thought and activity. (And no, it was not simply a hoard of young white people shouting: “WHOSE STREETS? . . .”Ah, you know the rest.) The idea of street-party-as-protest was one that held enormous appeal and potential, and one that Will and his collaborators planned to apply often.
The first Complacent party hosted in that fatefully tragic month of November, 2000 was titled Feel, focusing on full sensory awareness. (Not unlike the touch caves often found in science museums.) People were treated to alcoholic beverage taste-tests, and led through tunnels covered in various smooth, soft, and scratchy surfaces. The admission to the party was $7, in one dollar bills. My assumption was because the actual counting seven individual bills was an important corporeal process that we don’t think about often enough. Will had greater plans for those bills. They weren’t used to pay for the space, or the booze, and it definitely didn’t go into anyone’s pockets. Well, not quite yet.
Instead, on the morning after Thanksgiving, (the traditional Biggest Shopping Day of the Year and annual Buy Nothing Day for the anti-capitalist community) a mysterious figure in a suit and a mask (mimicking the familiar smiley-face logo, except with a straight line for a mouth) climbed atop a lamppost in Herald Square, in front of the biggest department store in the world…and began tossing the bills from a giant plastic garbage bag into the streets.
The pandemonium that ensued was expected, and it was only exacerbated when the people scrambling in the streets scraped up the dollar bills only to see stamped on one side of the bill in big red letters: SATISFIED? The man in the suit and mask (Will Etundi, of course,) was prompted arrested and spent a night in jail for disorderly conduct. A small price to play to place your name on the map of anti-consumerist culture, the crowds and the onlookers saw the face bearing neither a smile nor a frown. And pretty soon, the underground community knew the name Complacent. Their next party had nine-hundred attendees. This time around the money collected was put to the purpose of holding more events, maintaining www.complacent.org and, of course, stickers. Lots and lots of stickers.
Complacent became Complacent Nation in 2005, an effort to take it above and beyond just an event-by-event basis, with a regular email list broken down into three tiers: Aesthetics for art exhibits, Sedition for activism and protests, and Decadence of course, for parties. It was a clear well organized breakdown for everything that Complacent stood for. But it wasn’t just Complacent anymore. Now it was Complacent Nation, and the message therein was quite clear: “This Nation is fucked. What the hell is wrong with everyone?”
Well, as any arrogant prick will tell you (Full disclosure: I am an arrogant prick) it’s lonely at the top. Proclaiming oneself as righteous and everyone else just ignorantly content may not be the best way to get people behind your objective. We’ve seen some disturbing times since 2000, and starting with one sorrowful stolen election, things have been getting progressively worse, while many Americans are either in a car, at a desk, or on a couch. Sitting fat on their asses any way you slice it.
Things are bad, but when you start with fatalism, where do you go from there?
It seems like that’s been a question that Complacent has been contemplating itself for some time. And if you want to keep people involved, you can’t hang an all ominous cloud of doom over them the whole time you’re doing it. For this reason it seems, the focal point of Complacent events seem to be leaning more and more toward the decadent and aesthetic and less toward the seditious. As creators expand upon their own aspirations, the realization must be made that in this town, young people will always be more drawn to parties than petitions. Which doesn’t always meld with the causes and ideologies that led to this strongly titled condemnation of a country that just doesn’t care. The result is a heavily flawed message that has seemed to linger beneath the text of each of the Complacent emails:
“We can make progressive change in the world, if only we party hard enough…”
Not really the same as Washington’s great ambition, but I don’t think Will was drawing an allusion to the Battle OF Brooklyn (1776), no the name of the party was the Battle FOR Brooklyn as epic email proclamation explained:
“This is a call to arms?” Hmm? Is this La Revolucion, maybe?
“There are things worth fighting for. Have you noticed? Brooklyn is slipping. The storefronts are getting cleaner.” My first reaction was a raised eyebrow. “Excuse me? Are we fighting for dirty storefronts now?” And what exactly did it mean by Brooklyn is slipping? From who? Toward what?
The cultish sermon continued: “Because when we look for excitement, we want feverish teetering on the brink of mania; we want to step over that edge in a way we will never return from. On this night Brooklyn is a metaphor for the grit that we miss.” I considered writing an email back with a lengthy treatise on how artist infusion into industrial and blue-collar neighborhoods has always been (at least in New York) the first step toward an influx of investment and developers. From the Village, to SoHo, to LES, and finally to Williamsburg, is it any wonder that Bushwick would be next, even quicker than the last? One of the most obvious indicators being massive bacchanalias, which will always attract the attention of industry types and well-monied thrill-seekers. I decided to go with the opposite approach:
“You want ‘feverish teetering on the brink of mania? You want the ‘grit’ of ‘Wild Brooklyn’? Go smoke crack and stand out in East New York at 3 in the morning.” But, you know. I was still going to attend…

Rolling Stone 1000 and The Mayor of Strawberry Fields

2006-05-11T06:15:00.000-07:00

Who's the worst group to give a tour to? Anyone? Any guesses?

Middle school kids from Long Island. Hands down, nobody even comes close. Cause not only are they rich, spoiled, sugarred-up money-saturated and and MTV-brainwashed beyond all hope, a trip to NYC isn't anything special to them. They don't care a single drop about John Lennon, they couldn't bother to hear a thing about the history of the Upper West and Central Park, all they want to do is annoy and harrass each other, and the adults, and of course, me.

And it's always the boys who try to get me to somehow admit that I'm gay (Oh, you have a girlfriend? What's HIS name. Hyuck Hyuck) who also get unbearably close to me when I'm giving my speech. Weird, and disturbing. Nothing but a pack of wild Jackal-monkeys. A combat tour as we call it. Forget about the important sites and stories, just get through it. Thank god they didn't want to see the WTC site, I can only imagine the scene they'd make there.

Anyway, into Strawberry Fields for lunch, a bare minimum of talking, back on the bus and take 'em to Toys 'R Us for an hour, what the fuck do I care? I just-

Oh shit. I left my backpack in the park.

I knew that wasting their time to run off and find it would instantly lose me any credibility I may have had, so I had to risk going back later for it. I slowly made a list in my head of the items in the bag as the kids loaded on to the bus. The bag itself was the most valuable item. Along with it was my most recent journal, which had more to-do lists and raw data than any deeply important creative work. Other than that nothing special. Just the thousandth issue of Rolling Stone I had bought earlier that day.

It seemed like an important collector's item, even though I never read Rolling Stone, it would be packed with significant history of the Classic Rock and youth movements in the late 20th. The cover was also brilliant. A Sergeant Pepper's mock up, except on a stage, and every face in the crowd was someone who was somehow important in the era of Rolling Stone. Kurt Cobain was the angel and Hunter S. Thompson the devil. Perfect. The cover also was a hologram that peeled off and left a regular version on the plain glossy-paper cover underneath. The hologram would be a perfect addition on my developing bedroom wall.

But that was most likely gone, along with the rest of the bag contents, so i just went on with the tour.

As we were circling Columbus Circle, I recieved a random call on my cell:

"Is this Gideon?"
"Yeah?"
"This is the Mayor." Not Bloomy, of course, a different mayor.
"Gary. The Mayor of Strawberry Fields" He continued. Gary, of course, was the unemployed, substance abused (which ones? Don't ask me!) patron of the renowned part of Central Park who has for 13 years (on and off) been putting together flower peace-sign decorations on the Imagine Mosaic in the heart of the Fields, I can only presume are donated by florists, or subsidized by Yoko or her various supporters of the site.

I don't know Gary's last name, his story, his origin, or his future, I just know that for zero dollars and zero cents, he creates an ephemeral boon of beauty to the already legendary tourist site, giving my sometimes apathetic students from far and near an additional highlight to their digital-photo slideshow they'll inevitably show to their friends and family back home.

He doesn't panhandle, he doesn't rant and rave, he only asks that we all hope and pray for peace, understanding, and good-will between all humankind. John couldn't have asked for anything more.

I told him i'd be there at 3pm.

At 2:50, i strolled back into Central Park at 72nd on the west side. The flower expansion upon the twenty-three year old mosiac still stood, but with a new addition to the design: A Rolling Stone hologram. Harvested from a backpack left in the Fields. Gary, of course, went through the bag and found my journal. On the first page had my name and number with the offer of a reward if found. He thought the hologram from the Rolling Stone cover just belonged in the heart of John's memento.

I did too.

He handed me back the bag, all items intact. We shot the breeze for a little while, along with Lisa, his female companion and the Black Lab they kept as guard and companion. I handed him a few bucks, he deserved more. I vowed to, next time I traversed Strawberry Fields, hand him a $20 and a joint as tribute for all he contributed to my tour. But tribute or no, Gary plays an indivisible role to the homage New York pays to the Greatest Rockers of All Time.

The Greatest are never recognized in their time. Or sometimes they are, I don't know, but Gary doesn't ask for fame, and he will not receive it. He only does what's right, and what's in his power to do what John Lennon always asked humanity to do: Make the world just a little bit better place in which to live. Nothing more, nothing less.

Bike vs Car 2 (Washington Sq Arch)

2006-05-04T08:06:00.000-07:00

So Critical Mass was fun this week! I was all dudded up in green plaid, announcing myself on my voice amplifier as the Spirit of Springtime, ready to take to the streets.

The summons I recieved for "not staying on the far right" kinda killed the fun. Oh well, I got a few laughs at the cops' expense while still staying charming enough to not get cuffed.

Anyway, a small handful of us ended up at Washington Square Arch, discussing out later plans when some 3-inch dick idiot started revving the engine of his bright yellow sports car down the block from a pack of proud bicyclists. God I love owning a voice amp. So, I shouted through the microfone:

HEY! TAXI! Which got their attention. I followed it up with
HEY YOU! IN THE YELLOW CAR. . . YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE!!! Big laughs, big applause, and a middle finger from the guy in the backseat.

The driver revs, to prove his manhood, or superiority, or whatever, and then attempted to peel out with grand bravado. In doing so, nearly crashing his overpriced hunk of junk into a tree. We all had a good laugh, and the car drove off with it's fender between it's legs

Sweet.

Bike vs Car 1 (9th ave & 16th st.)

2006-05-04T07:58:00.000-07:00

Did you know that lower Ninth ave has a Bike Lane? No lie, the far left lane is all for bicyclists. Wide one, too. I didn't know until my brother Matt and my friend Nick brought me there on our way to Critical Mass. Apparently, neither did the Yellow Cab that came barrelling up the street right toward us.

Of course, he was in a hurry, much moreso than anyone else on the road, so he was, of course, justified in tearing ass up the bike lane with three bicyclists stopped waiting to turn onto 16th st. Nick moved out of the way calmly, whereas I yelled at the cab to slow it down. Noticing he wasn't slowing, I moved myself out of the way just enough as well. Broken Legs was not convenient for me at this time.

Matt however, my proud, pseudo-rebel would not back down. Standing stone-faced against the grand yellow beast, he turned his wheel *just* enough to coincide with the taxi swerving to the right *just* enough to whip right past him, missing the bicycle by what I would guess was. . . hmm. . . an inch.

Now here's the clincher. Being so very close to the cab as it whipped by gave big bro the perfect open window (quite literally) to tell the driver exactly what he thought of his macho and thorougly dangerous actions; in the form of one precisely hocked loogie of phlegm. Right in the guy's face.

Half a block later, the cabbie stopped. Nick and I stood next to Matt, ready for any (unarmed, we hope and pray) confrontation with the driver. He drove on.

Heaping kudos on my big bro for his brave action, he could only reply:

"I wish I had more phlegm)

Bike vs Car (intro)

2006-05-04T07:47:00.000-07:00

God, I love biking NYC. Especially springtime. Not too hot or cold, can wear a sharp outfit and still be weather-protected and not sweat up too much of a storm. So, I've already had two bikes stolen this year, no surprise, but with the money I've been making tour guiding, I could finally afford the Bike of my Dreams. A big, bad sonuvabitch, light-weight, good shocks, smooth gear-shift and a tight grip on the brakes, complete with drink-cage rear-view mirror and dinky little bell.

Which of course, lost me ALL cred with the fixed-gear, no-brake, too-small "real" biking Hipsters all over BK. Screw you, I bike for optimum performance.

Also, seeing how my summer job means I need to be at the South Street Seaport at 11am, that means rolling out of bed at 9 and taking a goregous ride across the Wburg bridge, down through LES and across Pike street to the seaport in 40 minutes,easy.

But of course, Spring in NYC also means a couple more things. . . lotsa road work. . . and a whole lotta car traffic.

New York a'int friendly to bicyclists. But that's okay, because we're right and they're wrong. We're using self-powered transport costing exactly ZERO gallons of gasoline for ANY distance while keeping ourselves trim, fit, and appreciative of fine weather. But still, taxis occupy the bike lane, SUVs clog crowded streets, and as good as it may feel to squeeze between lanes while cars are sitting, burning fuel, we're still embattled and fighting for our own in these streets.

And so herein, I shall include a handful of Bike vs. Car tales, where the bicyclists (most of the time) come out on top.

Mangia

-The Urbanist

A "Subway Escort" (NYC Tour Guide Confessions)

2006-04-21T04:21:00.000-07:00

A good Tour Guide should be a balance of three elements: One part educator, one part entertainer, one part cattle herder. Seriously "herd management" is crucial when it comes to leading large hordes of Suburbanites and more crucially Ruralites through the crowded, chatoic streets of New York. Crossing busy intersections is like a ballet that I've become very good at.

So when I was hired to be a "subway escort" for two days, I only slightly reluctantly accepted. Reason being, I was being hired at only 2/3 my regular going rate, but I wouldn't be doing any of the educator/entertainer stuff. Point-A to Point-B type stuff. Easy beans, with big chunks of downtime.

(One of the greatest "it's a good life" moments I've had recently: Soaking in the sun on the steps of St. Pat's Cathedral for an hour while making an hourly wage. Aaaaahhhh. . .)

Anyway, I got to the hotel where I was greeted by an overweight tour manager in his fifties with tendonitis. Okay, this is the guy they chose to lead a bus-less tour?? He attempted to get the attention of 60+ well-to-do Los Angelene 8th graders who were "just too cool for their own damn good." Brats, in other words.

It took a big, deep down, Levy-man bellow to get them to finally snap-to.

"HEY CHAMINADE HIGH SCHOOL, LISTEN UP!!!!" Well, I was running the show from that moment on.

One guide (sorry, "escort") who knew the city's timing and rhythms, crowd management, youth management, leading a group that was far, far too big for one guide. By the end of the two days, the adults were asking if I could take the place of their tour manager who apparently, didn't even like kids. Kids this self-centered, I could understand. It's amazing how they just can't help but blab incessantly.

Long story short, in the end, Chaminade HS was very disappointed with the leadership of their travel company and plans to hire Vintage NY Tours (my family's tour co: www.vintagenytours.com) to do all of the receptive services (Restaurants, subway passes, tix to attractions, and of course: GUIDES!) For their trip next year, and hopefully many years to come. Which is a pretty sweet proposition, considering that these kids had MONEY.

Sweet fancy bejeezus, I've never given a 5th ave walking tour where the kids could actually afford the shops we walked past! One girl begging me for enough time to go back to Tiffany's to get the $250 bracelet she wanted.

WHAT???

So as I dropped them at Grand Central and dealt with their begging me to please not go! and the photos, and the handshakes, I was expecting to walk away with a couple palmfuls of Jacksons, dreamily hoping of seeing a Grant or a very slim chance of a Franklin come my way.

And those ungrateful fucks didn't hand me a red cent. Of all the extra work I put in, all those fucking questions I answered because their Chicago-based tour manager didn't know dick, after all that fucking praise, these rich pricks didn't think to offer me a gratuity? Well let me tell you something:

VNYT a'int doing dick for them next year until I see a check come in the mail.

Work me ragged all you want, folks. As long as you're footing the bill.

Money talks, the rest is irrelenat.

Peace of mind at the North-Pole of Brooklyn (Pulaski Bridge, Greenpoint)

2006-04-13T19:10:00.000-07:00

Finding peace of mind in Brooklyn isn't easy. I imagine finding it in Queens isn't that easy either, so I thought maybe going halfway between them might help.

It didn't

I'm sitting on the Pulaski Bridge, named after Kazimierz Puławski, the Polish American Revolutionary and fought valiantly alongside George Washington and died in battle in Savannah Georgia in 1779. (for more: Wikipedia.org/Kazimierz_Puławski) I knew I girl last summer who lived right under the Brooklyn side. Entendre intended. Sweet girl, a bartendress at a place I hung out often. I once helped her boot a couple of pricks that wouldn't leave when asked politely. Ran into her a couple times after and then she sends me an email out of the blue asking me out.

We had a thing from June to August, but it was a stifling, humid, miserable, smelly summer and i was in no place to be intimate. One unbearably hot night while we were halfway "through" I decided I couldn't stand being that close to another sweaty body and I tried to find a polite, un-offensive way to tell her to please just get off of me.

There is no polite, un-offensive way to tell a girl to please just get off of me.

She left in tears and that was that.

During our sweeter days I'd spend the night at her place, get an iced coffee the next morning at the local Hipster caffiene-fix joint and walk across the Pulaski to the 7 train which brought both of us to work in 10 minutes. She had the most unbelievable view of the city skyline from her place.

It's been almost a week since I last smoked weed, which is the longest I've gone in years. I have to clean out for a new job I'm getting in May. One-time piss test when I start and then I plan on getting back on the bowl immediately. It's a good test though. So far, all it's done is made me irritable and fatigued which is funny. I seem to have more energy and am more productive when I'm blazed then when I'm clean, even if it is a very short-attentioned energy. Now that Iu'm more focussed and clear-headed, it's forced me to confront some of my issues.

Writer's block being the first on my mind. Seems like all I can write about these days is myself. Big surprise.

Love life is also on the forefront, and how all I've been able to do recently is rack up one failed prospect after another. See, with my Under-the-Bridge babe, I knew off the cuff that I wasn't that into her. But she was cute, and sweet, and fun. And the fact that she had the gonads to track down my email and ask me out was reason enough to give it a good college try. I don't regret a second of it. Well, maybe the way it ended. . .

Seems like most girls I go out with these days last three or four dates, and regardless of how good it's seeming, drop me the second it starts to seem like it might get serious. What is it with New Yorkers and an irrational fear of commitment? The polite ones have the decency to tell me, and not just avoid me all together.

Greenpoint is a fascinating place. Like a little slice of Poland, except not a complete and utter cultural failure. Everywhere there are pretty blondes, all tits, hips, and cheekbones alongside beefed up guys in tight shirts, with pale skin, buzz-cuts and big noses. There are more Delis than traffic lights. Maybe I'll grab a keilbasa sandwhich on my way back.

I decided to call Ms. Under-The-Bridge on my way out. We've been dancing around trying to get together since we split, the few times we finally did were brief and uninteresting. I told her I was coming out to the bridge for a little peace of mind. Thought I'd watch the sunset over the Greatest Skyline in the World.

The cloud cover prevented that. So did the intense wind and the endless rumble of cars over the drawbridge. My latest prospect told me that she'd call me when she got off work. It's 7:30. Still no call. My pocket's vibrating maybe thats-

Nope. Ms. Under-the-Bridge.

"Hey!! Are you okay??" She asked urgently
"Yeah, I'm fine, why?" Relieved sigh
"Jesus, you said you were going up to the bridge for "peace of mind" I thought you were going to kill yourself or something" I burst out a laugh
"God, no! I have a big job this weekend. Christ, I have a load of laundry I need to put in the dryer, I'm not going to kill myself!"

We laughed, caught up a bit. Made plans to get together again some time soon, both skeptical of the likelihood of that. It was getting cold. I figured I'd pick up some sort of meat sandwich at one of the thousand deli's in the local hood on my way home.

Kill myself. Hah. If I was going to jump from a bridge, I'd do it from the Brooklyn, go out in style. Jumping

The tale of Linda-rella and Prince Disarming (and THE HOLD STEADY @ The Warsaw: Greenpoint)

2006-04-09T16:00:00.000-07:00

My first time walking into The Warsaw was exciting. I never knew there was a large concert auditorium right here in Greenpoint. More than a concert auditorium, there was a side-room with a kitchen and tables, and another large room for the bar & lounge. The doors opened at 8, I arrived at almost 9 and it was still pretty empty. In perfect Polish fashion, it seemed like they were pretty lax about starting on time.

The Warsaw, in Greenpoint, is understandably a Polish venue. Complete with cute Polish girls serving Okocim beer (a tasty, smooth Pilsener. I recommend) and old, friendly Polish women serving Kielbasa, Pierogies and Sauerkraut in the dining room. While snacking down on a hearty serving of thick Polish sausage and potato & cheese dumplings, I silently apologized for all the Polish jokes I'd either told or laughed about in the past, understanding that if I did so here, I was liable to be taken out back and beaten severely.

The Hold Steady, (which are in short, a sloppy, guilty-Catholic, Gutter-punk Bruce Springstein and the E st. Band from Minnesota) took the stage by 11. Which, after a couple of beers and whiskeys at home, and two Okocims & one Wild Turkey at the bar made me feel right at home thrashing out to their deeply inspired rock ballads, which frontman Craig Finn properly belted off-tempo.

The details of the show i don't remember fully. What I do remember, was that when I was bringing my 2nd Wild Turkey into the fray, a bright-blue eyed, full-bodied cutie nearly snatched it right out of my hands. Well there, missy. I let her sip, and next thing I knew we had our fingers intertwined and she was grinding against me in the sweaty crowd. Nice.

The concert let out at around 12:30 and she told me her name (only after we had been kissing): Linda. And funny thing- Linda had no shoes on. Fancy that, somehow she lost them at the show. $4 loafers, but seriously. They were her freakin' shoes. In proper gentlemanly fashion, I offered her mine long enough to walk with her friends back to the friends' apartment and then hopefully, back to mine while I walked through the streets of Greenpoint in my argyle socks.

As she flopped toward Nassau ave in my size 13s, arm entwined in mine, she told me she was a linguistics students at a large university in New England, in town for the show and crashing on her friends' floor, unless of course, a better opportunity opened up. She was also drinking whiskey most of the night. Due to the foot-flopping and the occassional make-out break, we fell behind the rest of her friends so that when they turned the corner and we eventually followed. . .

They were gone.

Linda could have SWORN that this was their block, but she didn't know which building and her cell phone was in her purse which was in the apartment. And then it started raining.

Being the charming, dashing Prince that I was, we tried calling her phone, hoping the friends would hear it and pick up, but my batteries were soon dead and we were without options. I told her the best thing to do would probably take a car service back to my place, plug in my phone and keep calling. She nervously agreed.

By 3am, we gave up on calling. I told her that the next morning she could take a spare set of shoes that were a little too small for me, and still too big for her and agreed to call it a night. We got to kissing, and holding, and gripping and as darned as this dashing prince tried. . .

Dang it, she just wouldn't let me into them panties. So much for Prince Disarming. I told her I respected her decision and excused myself to the bathroom to rub one out.

We got 4 hours of sleep and on my way to work, I deposited her and the too-small-sneakers I bought in San Francisco at the Nassau st. Station. We were able to check her voicemail which had one concerned message from her friends with a phone # to call. We called all morning and eventually told them that she'd be at a coffee shop at that corner wearing too-big shoes.

I recieved a phone call later that day from her, telling me all was well and she and her friends were on a bus back to UConn. She thanked me for everything. Especially the shoes and the $10 I spotted her that morning. I told her to call me if she was ever back in NYC, which I highly doubt she will

How come things ALWAYS turn out better in the fairy tales?

The "Soul" of Brooklyn (A response to Complacent Nation)

2006-04-07T08:04:00.000-07:00

A comment made in the recent Complacent Nation email post:

"It's no secret Brooklyn is slipping through our fingers.
The outsider soul of the borough is being squeezed by
yuppies, babies and boutiques. On this night we reclaim
our home with danger art, huge music and elements of the
unimaginable."

My response:

"Your work is brilliant, your influence is immense, your outreach is strong, and your poetry is poignant.

But my gut clenches at your mention of the "Brooklyn" that is slipping. What exactly is this "outsider" soul that some unnamed authority has permissed you to write of.

What soul is this? Is it that of the Dutch founders of Breuckelen who found themselves nudged out of their rightfully founded New Netherland by British Imperialists?

Is it the old village of Bostwjick which found itself incorporated along with Flatbush, the Flatlands, Gravesend, and New Utrecht into the incessantly encroaching town of Brooklyn.

Or maybe it's Seth Lowe's city, the third largest in the nation. Which, when the Metropolis across the river extended it's hand to join in, emphatically cried no. Until, of course, the namesake of The Great East River Bridge was dangled before their eyes. Of half a million voters, a margin of 300 agreed to sell Brooklyn's independence away, just for the naming of the bridge. Forever branding it as "An Outer Borough."

Or maybe it was the bleak, lifeless, industrial wasteland that poor Puerto Ricans and Dominicans settled in decades ago before all these fucking artists started moving in, and hosting these parties. Forcing up the rents so that they and their families somewhere farther and farther away.

Because, of course, Walt Whitman never spoke of the stuff aristocrats who plopped their haughty, rich rumps down upon Brooklyn Ferry when Manhattan got too "Catholic" a good hundred-fifty years before Complacent ever dared to stamp their seal on a place much older, and much, much more complex than us all.

To re-iterate my first point, you are an amazing influence on the artistic burgeoning of our home, for this, I thank you.

But please, do not claim to speak for the Soul of Brooklyn.

Very Sincerely,
A Native.

THE DANSETTES! at Magnetic Field (Atlantic ave & Hicks st.)

2006-04-04T13:56:00.000-07:00

Whenever I spent a night out imbibing large amounts of alcohol, I always balance it with an equal amount of hydration, and often food bookending it on either side. This way, I have more or less been able to keep myself to less than five hangovers per year, which considering how many drinks I have over the span of a year. (500? 600?) I think is rather impressive.

A dance hangover, is something completely different.

This past Saturday evening, I got my groove on (no sexual inuendo implied) for nearly eight hours straight.

It all started at The Dansettes show at Magnetic Field, a cute pseudo-dive in Fort Greene with a small stage in the back. Didn't seem like enough to handle the vocal tripple threat of said band, but sufficed quite nicely with the boys in the band respectively standing behind the epynomous leads.

The Dansettes are Jenny Wasserman, Leah Fishman, and Jaime Kozyra: Three cute, petite, pale-skinned white girls with deep-down soul-filled voices that hit their highs and lows every time. Their band consists of Tom Ward on Bass, Andy and Dennis Pierce, on drums and guitar resp. and of course Jay B. Flatt the main man behind the keyboard, and from what I can tell, the mastermind behind the highly stylized band.

Their music is genre, that genre being 50's - 60's soul/rock and roll. It's not original, it's not revolutionary, but when it's good, it's damn good, and the Dansettes are damn good. Matching outfits are also a key aspect to their image. Leah informed me before the show that they own three matchings sets of dresses. I have so far seen them in the maroon and the sky-blue. Both sets, right out of a 1950's mod-squad action flick. The fellas were all proper in their black suits and shite shirts.

The bar was packed to the gills which helped fuel the band's energy, already on a kick from their triumphant return from SXSW (South by SouthWest music fest for ye ignoramus'). Unfortunately, it severely hindered the dance efforts of the small pack of groovy-cats right in front of the stage.

The crowning moment occurred when the band invited their surprise guest out on stage: None other than the Queen of Brooklyn Soul, AND the feature in this week's L magazine, the indominable Sharon Jones. a 4'11" powerhouse vocalist who brought the show home like a space-shuttle re-entering orbit and of course, invited a couple of the smoothest gents in the crowd to get down with her up on stage.

Oh yes I did. See the images section.

The Dansettes are riding a wave of momentum, and with their EP "Oh, My!" now available at shows, I suggest you check the sensation to get a blast from the past gettin' you up to shake yo' ass. And do it before they get to big for places like Magnetic Fields. Cause according to my friend who showed up late, they're selling out fast.

35? 35?!?!?! (Broadway & Bowling Green)

2006-03-30T16:24:00.000-08:00

Confessions of a New York City Tour Guide:

So a certain bus requested me to be their guide today. Hmm, must've made a good impression on a group leader a year ago or something. We were late, my brother and I, a mix up in information said 57th & 10th when we were supposed to be down at South St. Shit.

Half an hour and a $20 cab ride later, all was well. I didn't recognize the group leader, but he recognized me, and asked for one thing:

To climb the Bull. all right then.

Quick loop around Water st brought us right to the Bowling Green where I led them to one of New York's favorite climb-able sculpture: a 7000 lb, 11 foot long bronze beast. Staring down Broadway so fiercely, it splits upon it's polished horns. Every broker's favorite mascot: The Wall Street Bull.

"In 1987, the stock market was rocked by a terrible crash. People were concerned that the rip-roaring greed-is-good thrills of the 80's had come to an early end, and the dark days they had seen a decade ago were right around the corner. But one SoHo artist, a Sicillian-born sculpter named Arturo Di Modica decided that he was going to design a sculpture to rally the troops back on to the floor. After two years building the piece, he and a few friends loaded it onto a flatbed truck, and after timing the policemen's watch, dropped it off right in front of the stock exchange in the middle of the night. Exactly eleven days before Christmas.

The public was stunned, and the police were, well, unhappy. They impounded it, and Arturo had to pay an impound fine to release it. (His argument against paying was similar to most of those at the impound lot: "This is BULL!") It was moved to the Bowling Green five days later."

And with a straight face I always ask: "Who wants to climb the bull?" See, normally, the kids look at the adults, and the adults look at each other waiting for some sort of approval before a handful of them apprehensively climb on. Six or seven of them slowly make their way on, a couple of pictures are taken, and we move on.

See, this time around, by the time I finished the word "climb" six of them had already made it up there. Not even by the convention means of getting a boost and wrapping a leg around it's neck. I mean, one tall, strapping lad leapt up from behind the thing's rump, grabbed the tail and WOOSH! I couldn't keep 'em off the thing!

Someone asked "what's the record?" I fumbled for a second

"Uh, 19 high schoolers, 24 middle school."

"EASY!" Before I knew it, they had 25 and counting. One on each of the three available feet (fourth foot's innaccessable.), Kids on the top holding on to kids clinging to the side, three squeezing into a spot I thought could fit only one. Eight hanging from the head, three from the horns alone! Squeezing, twisting, getting into positions that would otherwise be thoroughly innapropriate for a group of High School Mormons from Idaho. (Two on the end of the tail. One male, one female. Facing each other? . . .) if, of course, it weren't for the record. I spun around keeping close count until I could not believe the number I had reached.

"35? 35???? You ANIMALS!!!" I cried. Di Modica, and Thomas Nast, the man who first sketched that hard-headed rallying monster. Would have been very, very proud.

A Grand Arch [Grand Army Plaza]

2006-03-29T19:27:00.000-08:00

Note: Previously published in The L Mag's Brooklyn Edition, 2006

In 1865, two men stood on a hill’s crest in the City of Brooklyn and said: “Here. This is the spot.” The men were architects. Landscape architects, a new term that combined botanical arts with structural design into creating vast natural landscapes in the middle of bustling cities.
They were Calvert Vaux, a British architect and Frederic Law Olmstead, an American journalist & amateur botanist. In 1857, against all odds, they won the contract to design a park in the center of New York City. They had never designed a park before, but Andrew Jackson Downing who originally won the contract died saving his mother-in-law’s life during a ferry accident.
After a challenging thirteen years and over $5 million dollars spent, Central Park was hailed as an urban miracle. Vaux and Olmstead were given free reign to design a park of their own, without pressure or demands from officials and outside parties. A vanity piece.
They chose Brooklyn as their canvas.
The nation had just been torn apart from the strife of the Civil War (which Olmstead reported in his journals as a Northerner reporting from the South.) and here in New York’s prominent sister city, they wanted a grand sweeping entrance to a pristine urban retreat that would commemorate the fallen soldiers.
Check out Grand Army Plaza any day of the week to experience that sweeping entrance with it’s magnificent arch, inspired by the one and only Arc de Triomphe a la Paris. The bronze sculptures known as Spirits of The Army and Navy, and Lady Columbia up top were added in 1896.
The legendary Saturday green-markets arrived nearly forty years later.

King for a Day! Pt. 1 [Birthday Bar Crawl/Williamsburg]

2006-03-26T10:21:00.000-08:00

Today is March 26, and I am 24 years old.

24. Nope, nothing special. Let's get drunk.

I have a personal birthday policy. Birthday boy is King for a day. Past years I developed a construction-paper crown a la Elementary School with a glitter number for whatever age I happened to turn, and I wore that baby all over town! Free sub at subway, smiles and winks and cheek-pecks from the ladies and, of course, a since-21 tradition: The birthday bar crawl.

First couple of years were in Western Mass where I went for college and last year's was hosted by the East Village. Now it was Billyburg's turn and living out by Morgan and Flushing, I figured I'd start out Bedford-ways and see which subway station on the L I'd stumble on to on my way Eastwards.

1. 11pm- CAPONE'S: (N9, Driggs & Roebling) ah, everyone's favorite speakeasy. A neon red sign on an otherwise desolate block and a free pizza with each beer consumed! Mazel-tov! Big Bro sponsored the first beer, and the bar-lady treated me to a Maker's Mark rocks. The dance floor was too much floor and not enough dance. DJs were lame too.

2. 12:45am- BLACK BETTY: (Metro & Havemeyer) Sweet sassy Molassey that's a stylish dance-spot. Too crowded with white people not dancing though. I bought myself my favorite cocktail (secret!) and bartendress treated me to a kamikaze shot. Dancing was fun, but too packed.

3. 1:15am- ALLIGATOR LOUNGE: (Metro & Lorimer) The bartendress couldn't care less it was my birthday, she was busy. Wouldn't even recommend a Bday shot. I sucked down a turpentine lemon drop for $6 and left without tipping.

4. 1:35 am- METROPOLITAN: (Lorimer & Metro) Aaahhh. So *this* is the neighborhood gay bar. Free tequila shot & a wink from the bartender. I left shortly

Hmm. can't seem to walk straight and vision's a little blurry. No problem, I'll walk it off. By the time I got to Graham avenue I knew I wouldn't last too much longer. I needed a sweet spot to end the night. When I found myself on Leonard and Metro I remembered a Time Out NY article about a little spot with it's own aphrodisiac house drink. A little blend of Dominican Rum and Herbs called

5. 2:00 am- MAMAJUANA: (220 Leonard tween Grand and Powers) The Mamajuana is a sweet and smoky rum-based cocktail that allegedy has both medicinal and rejuvinative properties. The bar had a lovely low-lit atmosphere infused with Afro-Latin themes and comfortable couches. There was an Itunes DJ by the name of Madame Turk spinning (mouse-clicking?) a blend of Hip-Hop, Latin dance music and the occassional rare-rock cover. There were 5 people in the place. 3 were dancing.

For smokers and lovers, there was a back door with led to an alleyway maybe 30 inches wide and twelve feet long. A plastic statue of a woman, painted to look like stone was at the end, surrounded by candles. Quite an impressive minimalist shrine. Something about it was undenialy sexy. I purchased one Mamajunana from the light-skinned, 100% bald bartender named Alister. A man I percieved to by the owner (tall, dread-locked and handsome) upon learning it was my birthday, nodded to Alister to refill my glass.

I stumbled to the Graham st. station and stayed awake/kept it down long enough to stumble home and down water to keep it settled.

My head & throat hurt the next day, but not enough to keep the King for a Day down. Winner of the night, was no doubt: MAMAJUANA. I reccomend you all check it out with someone you want to get busy with.

What a kick in the KOCH! [103 & 5th]

2006-03-24T14:30:00.000-08:00

Well, I finally made it out, all the way up to the tenuous border between the Upper East and Spanish Harlem, a 45 - 60 minute ride from my home in Bushwick to the grand Museum of the City of New York

*Note* which by the way, is a fantastic, fun museum that doesn't get enough patronage do to its inconvenient location. It *almost* moved down to the Boss Tweed courthouse, on Chambers, north of City Hall, but Bloomy squashed that effort. Grrrr.

And what a Museum it is! Focussing on all aspects of city history, there's one exhibit dedicated solely to the history of trade in the city, and how New York became the top port city in the country. Greeting you on your way in is a twelve foot bronze (or some other metal) statue of Robert Fulton. Intense.

The section titled "Perform" (done up to look like an old-fashioned theater house) wonderfully portrays New York's long history of the stage, including pieces on Vaudeville, Burlesque, Minstrel shows and the difference between Broadway, Off, and Off-Off-Broadway (hint. It's got nothing to do with Broadway itself.)

But the real reason i came, was to catch the exhibit all about the mayor who was running things when I was just a wee little infant, and then through my toddler years. Both a jokester, and a man who knew how to get things done. A man who caame to be known as New York City's cheerleader at a time when we needed a morale boost the most. Sure, when a guy's around we like to bash his short-comings, but after history has had time to reflect on a public figure, we can see exactly what impact a handful of policies can really have on a city.

And Mr. "How'm I doin?" took the helm at the city's darkest hour (1977) and presided over the great turnaround that has resulted in the low-crime, booming-arts Metropolis that we see today. You did a fine job, Mr. Mayor.

HPD, (Housing Preservation and Development) was one of Koch's focal points for the city, doing what was necessary to revive old burned out buildings and neighborhoods. In some cases giving them away to those who had the money to renovate them, and could then turn a profit selling/renting them out.

He established the One Percent for Art initiative. One percent of the City's budget towards arts funding. That's a lot of dough, which in turn helped fund nearly 200 projects.

And no, he's not gay. Seriously, don't you think by now some guy would have come out to the press and said "I had sex with Ed Koch, and now I'm putting out an all-tell book on it!"

So here's to a blast of a mayor who really gave his all to help get a city back on it's feet without crawling on his knees to those bastardly feds the way his predicessor Abe Beame did. Loser.

I conclude with my favorite Koch story (told by Koch himself on a documentary I saw) The day after he left office, he went to a Deli to get lunch. Everyone turned and looked at the man they realized was no longer the boss. An old woman with a scowl on her face strutted up to him, looked him right in the eye and belted: "You were a TERRIBLE Mayor!" And realizing he was now free from any and all public service obligations, responded with his gut instinct and replied:

"FUCK YOU!" That's my man.

We're all a little Irish Pt. 3 of 4

2006-03-21T18:54:00.000-08:00

“The first Irish resident of New York City? Why, St. Brendan the Navigator, of course! Eight-HUNDRED years ago…No! Just kidding, but Irish sailors and merchants have been coming here since the days of Dutch New York, or New Amsterdam as it was known. In fact, the first St. Patrick’s Day Parade was in 1766, ten years before the revolution. It was a very different parade, though. These were Irish Protestants marching as part of the British Royal Army. The sort that eventually perpetrated the Orange Riots of the next century as an attempt to suppress the new Irish Catholic uprising that was happening all over these streets.”
“Catholics…” At which point I suck my teeth dramatically. “It all started with the Irish in the 1840’s! Sure, you had Italians, Poles, some Germans, Jews even hanging around the outskirts of New York, but this was an proud old Knickerbockers town. names like Van Wyck, or Vanderbilt, of good Dutch or English protestant stock. Native Americans as they were called before that became a more politically correct term for In’jins. It was the potato famine of ’43 that sent them here by the boatload.
Poor dirt-farmers, carrying disease, hunger hanging around their gaunt frames like a plague. Alcoholism in the five points was an epidemic. Less than one percent of the immigrants who came over were literate. And the Nativists, the old guard who stood at the port watching ship after ship come into the busy harbor were ready for them. With rocks in hand.
This was, of course, before ’61. Before there was a dramatic turnaround and the boatloads of refugees were welcoming with open arms. The young men, mostly. They were given a cup of soup, and a crust of bread, and for just a quick X on a piece of paper filled with long words and small print, they were given a fresh batch of new clothes. Uniforms actually. All blue, complete with hat, badge and rifle. They didn’t stay in New York for long. By the next day most of them were off to places with names like Gettysburg or Antietam.
The turnover from Immigrant to Union Soldier to Corpse for those four years was startling. And it left a mark on those who survived.
Whether it was the Civil War, or it was the racism they faced from a nation that still clung to some of the ghosts of its father empire. Perhaps it was the Irish Need Not Apply or Dogs and Irish Not Allowed signs that most businesses put in their windows. Or it was the cartoons that were published in Harper’s Weekly that portrayed them as little more than well-dressed apes. For nearly thirty years, they had persevered under the city’s heel, with no jobs, no respect, no chance at upward mobility except for one essential bargaining chip that was their birthright upon their re-christening as Americans.
They could vote.
And with now thousands of Irish men on the streets of New York, a master King-Maker like William “The Boss” Tweed knew he could manipulate this influence. Tammany Hall, the old New York Democratic institution developed brute squads made up of some of the toughest gang-members that had sprung up out of the Irish populace. The Bowery Boys, the Dead Rabbits, the Forty-Thieves, and Plug Uglies would get to politicking months before the elections.
A one Capt. Isaiah Rynders way back in 1835 was the first one to really sway the vote. You could call him the “Jack Abramoff” of his day. He would organize the gang influence and use tactics such as spreading word through the saloons to vote one way. I remember the very effective Vote for Tim Sullivan or Lose a Finger campaign. Or reminding all the fellas to grow their beards out a couple months before election-day. When the day came, the barber shops were ready at first dawn for the drill: They’d vote, come in, lose the beard, vote, come back, lose the moustache, vote.
How else do you think a crooked saloon-keeper like “Big Tom” Foley could rise up to a Democratic party boss. He would eventually have a square around the corner named after him and he would act as a mentor to a kid named Al Smith. Al was from the Lower East Side, and he got his “degree” from the Fulton Fish Market University. And he eventually became governor of New York. A great governor at that, and eventually the Democratic Candidate for President in 1928. Would’ve been the first Catholic President, over thirty years before Kennedy.
The astounding spires at 50th & 5th completed in 1878 say it all: We’re here. We’re proud. We’ve got power now. And we’re here to stay.”

From there we returned to the bus. And were off to the Irish Hunger Memorial.

We're all a little Irish Pt. 2 of 4

2006-03-21T08:24:00.000-08:00

Today’s tour started outside of Charlie O’s. A formula Irish-American Bar and Restaurant on 45th and 8th. The sliver between Times Sq. and Hell’s Kitchen that still hints at a time when both districts meant something else entirely. We were serving coffee and scones in Styrofoam cups on a card table to two and a half busloads of old Irish assimilates from ------ Pennsylvania. Of course we had a little “Irish” to put in the coffee. Most of them requested a little more Irish with each cup. Eventually, a couple of them dropped the ruse and just asked for the “Irish” straight. There were threee of us there. One to pour the coffee, one to pour the nip, and one to watch out for cops. I figured, “When in Dublin” and had a nip or four myself.

I hate “used to be” tours. So much of Manhattan’s history is apparent and visible: the Trinity church from the days of Washington, the Dakota Hotel from when the Upper West was a big patch of farmland. Then there are the parts that are always chaging, never the same. Like talking about the “Taxi Driver” days of The Deuce while standing under the Lion King marquee.
Scorcese’s grand cinematic opera situated in the mythical Five Points district set expectations pretty high for a walk through the old Paradise Square. Standing between the monkey bars and the jungle gym down at Columbus Park, I began: “Here’s a good example of how much New York City has changed in the past hundred and forty-odd years. What used to be the deadliest slum in all of New York, many would say in all of the Northern states of the U.S. is now a children’s playground.”
Nestled on the border between Chinatown and the Civic Center, Worth st. on the south side of the Park recalls scenes from Law & Order long before it would evoke memories of a Gangland Gomorrah.
The irony is not lost on me.

Fruit! Glorious Fruit! [Bushwick]

2006-03-20T10:51:00.000-08:00

I'm a breakfast man.

Yes, it is the most important meal of the day, and sometimes for me, it lasts for two or three meals. Breakfast always goes in cycles for me too. The hearty whole-grain toast, eggs and bacon of the harvest season gave way to festive French Toast with, maple syrup, farmers jam and a cup of mocha over the holidays, paring down to yogurt and granola with a tall cup'a OJ for the New Year slim-down.

Now spring is here, and I'm craving me some fruit. Serious fruit, fresh, vibrant, colorful with variety! Oranges, apples, kiwis, strawberries, bring 'em all on!! Ssips lemonade a'int cutting it anymore.

Which is why I always balk at the $1.29 grapefruits at Brooklyn natural on Bogart & Meserole. Damn you gentrification! Raising the prices on everything! Unless of course, you're not a self-isolating idiot and hop a bike down Knickerbocker for five minutes into the Latin discount shopping paradise that is the KB strip!

Stop at Willoughby and KB, right by Maria Hernandez Park (also the only park of note in this 'hood) and stop into the amazing greengrocer there, with a plank of plywood up where a sign should be. You'll be greeted more friednly-like by all of the oranges (5 for $1) grapefruits (4 for $1.25) Red Peppers, Green Peppers, Pineapples, strawberries, et al out front waiting for you to squeeze their ripeness!

And that's only a sample of all the more produce you'll find inside!

I made off like a bandit for $7. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a salad to make.

We're all a little Irish. . . Pt. 1

2006-03-19T19:30:00.000-08:00

It’s March 17th, 2006 and I’m dressed in more green than I’ve worn since Halloween ’97 when I was the Sociopathic Green Giant. Except for the Jameson, I’ve got no Irish in me. None. Ashkenazi Jew with roots all over Eastern Europe. A Fourth Generation New Yorker, great-grandson of Old Man Ellis, but no Irish, none.
Some random statistic I picked up said that 40% of all Americans can trace at least some roots back to Ireland. The Gothic Emerald Haven, with it’s intricate spiderwebs of stone masonry around two daunting spires, staring down Atlas himself on 50th and 5th bringing him in all his stoic bronze eminence down on one knee. The globe upon his back lowered more in symbol than substance across the avenue where the cross rests on high.
The Erin born, emerald clad, with skirt and knee-sock, pipes pressed on pursed lips. Pale, freckle-faced college kids tumble on to the E train at 1pm stopped at 34th st. Shamrocks a’blazin! “Ginger-ale” bottles passed between them claiming the day’s better than Christmas. I discreetly produce a thin steel screw-top tucked in my jacket pocket and have a nip. I guess we’re all a little Irish on St. Paddy’s Day.
On New Years, I told myself I’d quite drinking for the month of January. The holidays always get bombarded with more food and booze than any liver and intestinal should have to deal with in a three month period. I figured after New Years, 31 days dry would do me good, start me off right, eat better too. More vegetables and healthy food. The diet stuck (mostly). I made it twelve days drink free and congratulated myself for the effort.
Now it’s the turn of spring and I’m glancing at my watch, sometimes the sun’s angle for when it’s time to kick back and “start the evening”. Keeping close track of the happy hours in each neighborhood I might be in around 5 pm is a bad sign of progressive thinking. I check the open-bar website now almost as often as my email. At least the ink’s flowing again.
Shit, Edna lived a dozen live